


The Reason I Can't Stand You Is...

by predominantly_normal



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, MJ has Family Issues, One-Sided Enemies-to-Lovers, Peter Parker is not Spider-Man, Slow Burn, Spideychelle, Trans Male Character, Trans Peter Parker
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-03
Updated: 2019-08-12
Packaged: 2020-07-30 15:33:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,929
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20099512
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/predominantly_normal/pseuds/predominantly_normal
Summary: After the curtain is pulled on MJ's dysfunctional home life, May and Peter offer to let her stay at their apartment. This would be incredibly generous, except for one little problem: MJ can't stand Peter, and she definitely doesn't intend to start liking him just because he's done something nice for her.Definitely not.





	1. ...You Make Me Feel Guilty for Being a Bitch

**Author's Note:**

> I've been reading Spider-Man fanfiction for two days now and I'm extremely disappointed in the lack of MJ-centric angst. So, here I am. This is an AU where Peter is NOT Spider-Man because frankly, I really don't know enough about the MCU to write a fic where he is.

Chapter One  
...You Make Me Feel Guilty for Being a Bitch

“Michelle!” Betty’s shrill voice pierces the quiet library like a bullet through skin, and sends MJ’s hands searching desperately for some headphones, _something_, to ward off the perky blonde journalist before she’s subjected to an interview.

MJ knew this was coming—Betty’s been trying to corner her for the better half of the week. She thought she’d be off the hook, considering this is the last day of their senior year. Leave it to Betty Brant to not know when to quit.

She fishes her headphones out of her pockets, then groans when she finds that they’ve gotten themselves tangled up in a knot that would take at least a full minute of dedicated focus to undo. She can hear Flash’s irritating voice creep into her head: _“This wouldn’t happen if you had AirPods. Just saying.”_

There isn’t even enough time for MJ to think of a mental rebuttal. Betty pulls out the seat across from her without asking and arranges her phone and a notepad on the table between them.

“That looks like a good book,” Betty says, pointing to the book MJ has opened up in front of her.

MJ glances up. Matches Betty’s brilliant anchor-woman smile with a mild scowl.

“Medieval torture devices. Ever heard of the brank before? It’s an iron cage that goes over someone’s head. There’s a spiked plate attached to it that’s supposed to go in the victim’s mouth, making it impossible for them to move their tongue without being injured.” Betty looks momentarily disgusted. MJ grins. _Checkmate._ “It’s outside of my usual interests in 20th century literature and political commentaries, but I just finished _The Trial. _I needed a palette cleanser.”

To MJ’s disdain, Betty is only deterred for a microsecond, bouncing back with the kind of affable charm that earns her invitations to house parties and not one—but _three—_flash-mob prom-posals.

“That’s _so_ interesting. I’m kind of jealous of how into reading you are, Michelle. I can’t get through a book unless it’s written by John Green.”

“An indicator that you should probably be reading _more_,” MJ retorts, scrunching up her nose.

“Ugh, you’re totally right,” Betty agrees with a sage nod. “Anyways, unrelated topic—I’ve been dying to talk to you all week. You’re a hard person to track down.”

“Apparently not hard enough. So, what’s this for? The school paper, or your portfolio?”

Betty sighs. “Oh, thank God. I’m so glad we’re on the same page here. Not that I _wouldn’t_ want to chat with you about creepy torture devices or whatever, but I’m on a serious time-crunch for this story. It’s going to be in the Chronicle, you know. I got an internship.”

MJ sucks in her lips and nods. Tries to look impressed even though she truly couldn’t care less. It’s not like she and Betty are on bad terms or anything. Betty’s actually one of the few people outside of her Decathlon teammates who acknowledges her existence at Midtown. Unfortunately, basic human decency doesn’t cut it when it comes to getting one of the coveted shares in MJ’s “emotional investment” stock.

MJ dog-ears the page she’s on (fuck literature elitists, seriously) and claps her book shut. She crosses her arms over the table. “Cool. Let’s get this over with.”

Betty grins from ear-to-ear. She flips through her notes until she comes to a page with MJ’s name written on the header, and opens up her phone’s audio recording app.

MJ can’t boast a secret talent in reading upside-down, but she catches a glance at the page of notes before Betty pulls them to her chest, and she infers that it’s a detailed list of her own academic achievements throughout her four years at Midtown. She raises an eyebrow—_now_ she’s impressed. Betty might be a bit of an airhead, but when it comes to journalism, she’s all business.

This point is only proven when Betty irons out her cheerful expression into something perfectly rehearsed and professional.

“So, this interview is going to be recorded for accuracy. Is that alright, Michelle?”

“As long as you’re not asking for my credit card information, that should be fine.”

“Great! Then can you spell out your first and last name for me?”

“You know how to spell my name.” MJ rolls her eyes.

“It’s in good journalistic practice!” Betty insists.

MJ blows a puff of air up towards her frizzy bangs before relenting. “Fine. M-I-C-H-E-L-L-E—_space_—J-O-N-E-S.”

“Perfect. So, let’s start out with something simple. What extracurricular activities do you participate in?”

Even though MJ’s fairly sure that Betty’s notes are probably thorough enough to cover the gory details of her conception, she answers the question with a straight face.

“Decathlon. That’s it.”

“My notes say that you’ve been the captain for three years now. That’s very impressive.”

“Two and three-quarters, technically,” MJ corrects. “I took over in sophomore year because Liz Toomes moved to Oregon.”

Betty’s concentration seems to waver for a moment at the mention of Liz’s name. MJ vaguely remembers them being close friends before Liz moved, and she feels a little guilty for bringing a bad memory back to the surface.

Quick to recover, Betty coughs and flips through her notes for a moment before moving on. “In any case, on _top_ of leading our Decathlon team to an undefeated three-year streak at nationals, you’re also graduating with the title of summa cum laude. Isn’t that impressive?”

“Considering the fact that our school is full of literal geniuses? Not really. I think half of our class is graduating with highest honors.”

MJ tries to word it so that she puts a clear line between the aforementioned “geniuses” and herself. It’s easy to assume that her aloof front means that this shit comes as easily to her as it does to the actually gifted kids like their valedictorian, Peter Parker, but behind every A-letter grade and Decathlon win is hours of studying and bashing her own skull against the wall.

“It’s still nothing to sneeze at,” Betty says, trying to keep her voice light. “In any case, I’m interviewing the best of our school’s graduating class to find out what the students of Midtown will be doing with their futures. So, MJ, what does the upcoming fall season look like for you?”

MJ taps her fingers against her arms. She doesn’t answer Betty’s question. Instead, she asks her own. “Off the record, who does the ‘best of our graduating class’ entail?”

“I’d rather keep that confidential,” Betty says. There’s a pause, and then she relents with a sigh. She taps a button on her phone and pauses the recording. “But if you promise to actually take the rest of this interview seriously, I might be persuaded to loosen up on my code of ethics just this once.”

“Way to stick it to the man.”

“Michelle.”

MJ frowns. “Fine.”

Betty clears her throat and flips back through her notebook. “Danny Cooper, starting quarterback. Mark Chen, basketball. Rafael Patel, Model UN, debate club, _and_ JSA. Ned Leeds, Lego club-,” MJ rolls her eyes at that one—Ned and Betty had a fling in junior year that lasted all of one week, but it’s still clear that she hasn’t gotten over him, “-Barney Anderson, student body president. And Peter Parker. Of course.”

“Of course,” MJ repeats with a hardly-concealed roll of her eyes.

MJ doesn’t hate Peter Parker. Not really. To hate someone implies that they’re worth the emotional investment, and honestly—Peter is definitely _not_ worth it. No, she doesn’t hate him. She’s just annoyed that he carries himself like a complete loser when it’s clear that everyone in the school is falling over one another for the chance to have a make-out session with his skinny, pale ass. Even before Flash (and by association, Flash’s daily torments) graduated and left Midtown, Peter was always fairly well-liked.

And hell, even when Peter’s life was just one big “Penis Parker” joke, at least he was _seen._ That’s more than MJ can lay claim to.

“Anyways, I have a few more guys—chess club co-captains, Hackathon champions, et cetera,” Betty says before she flips back to MJ’s page.

“No offense, but don’t you think your list is a little biased?” MJ asks.

Betty purses her lips. “I know it’s a bit male-leaning-,”

“Actually, I was going to say _blatantly misogynistic,_” MJ cuts her off.

Betty groans and slams her hands on the table. MJ flinches. “What did you _expect_, Michelle? Our school’s male-to-female ratio is like, four-to-one. I tried interviewing Rana Khalid because she’s the captain of our BC calculus club, but she turned me down. And it’s not like I can interview myself. So, right now it’s just Sarah Wheeler, who manages the bowling team, and you—if you’ll actually answer my questions with an ounce of fucking sincerity.”

MJ leans back in her chair, swallowing hard. Finally, she starts to notice the little cracks in Betty’s impeccable anchorwoman façade. The black eye-bags. The way her hair looks like it hasn’t been properly done in ages. The slouch of her shoulders indicating that Rana Khalid was not the only girl who’s turned her down for an interview.

MJ wants to apologize for being a dick, but all she can manage to say is a dry, “Oh.”

Betty shakes her head. “Look, I know this isn’t your thing. But I really wanted some female representation in this article, and it’s the last day of school, so you’re my last shot.”

“Alright,” MJ says, relenting. “Let’s do this.”

“Thank you,” Betty says, and she looks genuinely grateful. She turns her phone’s audio recorder back on and clears her throat. “Now, back to the questions at hand. Outside of the classroom, what did you learn from your experiences at Midtown?”

“The levy won’t pass unless the football team has a good season,” MJ says before she can stop herself. Betty chuckles, but it’s stiff and filled with warning. MJ takes a breath before continuing, more candidly this time. “But really. I guess I learned how to participate. I was practically invisible before stepping up as the Decathlon captain. Now I’m lucky enough to be interviewed for a column in the _Chronicle._”

It’s still a little sardonic for an answer, but trying to completely take the edge out of MJ’s personality is like trying to deny a river of its course. Betty should know that.

“That’s awesome to hear. Where do you see yourself taking your education after graduating?” Betty asks.

“New York Institute of Art and Design,” MJ answers. “Thanks to the magic of scholarship essays and Pell Grants, I’ll even be able to afford it.”

Betty leans into the conversation with a sudden interest. “That’s really interesting, Michelle. Most of the students I’ve talked to so far say that they’re going to take advantage of the science-and-mathematics background they’ve gotten at Midtown to continue their journey in the STEM industry. What inspired a career in art?”

“What inspired a career in journalism?” MJ shoots back, feeling her hackles raise. “I don’t know. I’m good at it, I guess. It’s something I’ve always liked, and I think being at Midtown has only made me like it more.”

“What makes you say that?”

MJ can’t help herself. She tilts her head back at lets out a full laugh. “Because nobody in this fucking school gives a damn about art. It’s something I get to be good at without having to fight tooth-and-nail for a shred of distinction.”

“I’m starting to get it. Would you like to explain further?”

MJ glances up as she tries to reach for more words. “I mean, it’s true, isn’t it? Even if I busted my ass to do well in chemistry and calculus—I’d still hardly be a blip on the radar compared to people like Peter Parker.”

Betty nods, fully engrossed. “So, you’re saying that pursuing art makes you feel like more of an individual?”

MJ shrugs. “That seems like a gross simplification, but I guess so. Yeah, it does.”

“I see. Thank you very much for your time, Michelle.”

With a tap, Betty’s audio recorder is shut off again. She saves the file, and slips the device back into her blazer pocket.

“Anyways, off the record—how will it feel when you’re at a school where _everybody_ does art? You say you hate fighting tooth-and-nail for distinction, but that’s all you’re ever going to do once you’re in the New York Institute for Art and Design.”

The question is a left hook that comes right out of MJ’s blind spot and sends her reeling. Admittedly, she never thought about it that way. Still, she’ll die before she shows an inch of weakness to Betty Brant.

“Maybe that’s true,” MJ agrees soberly, “but at least I’ll have a chance this time.”

#

MJ decides to sit next to Peter Parker and Ned Leeds during lunch. It’s a decision she’s been making every day since sophomore year—a decision that she kicks herself for constantly.

A long time ago, Peter and Ned would sit together while MJ occupied a spot as far away from them at the table as physically possible. Somehow over the years, she’s started migrating closer, like an asteroid caught up in some ineffable field of gravity generated by the sheer mass of Peter and Ned’s virgin energy (Okay, she’s a virgin, too—but at least she has the decency not to broadcast it to the entire world via graphic tees and Star Wars references).

Nowadays, she sits right in front of Peter. They’re so close that her knuckles brush his occasionally when she reaches down to sip from her coffee. One time, she missed her cup and grabbed his hand instead. So, she knows by experience that his hands are soft, and never sweaty. Figures. _Perfect_ Peter Parker would _never_ be hindered by something as mundane as clammy hands.

For someone who is constantly irritated with Peter, MJ seems to put herself in his blast radius way more than necessary. Keep your enemies close, she figures.

As soon as MJ sits down, she makes it a point to ignore Peter and Ned, re-opening her book on medieval torture and popping open her travel canister of black coffee. She doesn’t even flinch as the bitter liquid goes down her throat. Taking her coffee black was something she learned to like—creamer is expensive, and the dairy industry is an ethical nightmare (and don’t even get her started on the ecological disaster that is almond-based dairy products).

Peter and Ned bicker about something for a moment. The bits and pieces MJ pick up on are just different inflections of the word, “dude”, so she zones them out. Then, Ned shoves Peter away and clears his throat.

“MJ. Question.”

MJ groans. She needs to start hanging a huge neon DO NOT DISTURB sign around her neck for people to start getting the hint.

“Before you ask, I’d rather put myself on the breast-ripper before I’d ever build a Lego Ty-Fighter replica with you and Parker,” MJ huffs, pointing to an illustration of an iron torture device in her book.

“One, ouch. Two, _ouch_. And three, that’s not even close to what I was going to ask,” Ned says.

“Fine. What is it?” MJ asks.

“Peter’s aunt wants to take some of his friends out for dinner tonight to celebrate us graduating. It’s this Thai place. Literally the best. We were thinking that you should come with us.”

MJ narrows her eyes, angling her head so that she can properly bore daggers into Peter’s skull. “Why didn’t Peter ask me, then? If it’s _his_ aunt and everything.”

Peter chokes. “I, uh—I was going to. I was just, you know, waiting for the right time.”

“Can you stop stammering like an idiot?” MJ rolls her eyes. “Who else is going?”

“Just you, Peter, and myself,” Ned informs her. “I was hoping we could keep it exclusive. Just the Decathlon Trio and more larb than you can dream of.”

“Excuse me? The Decathlon Trio?” MJ quirks a brow.

“You know, like the Golden Trio? Harry, Ron, and Hermione?”

“I’ve read Harry Potter, Ned. It’s just-,” MJ purses her lips and feigns a migraine, “-that is the dorkiest shit I’ve ever been subjected to listening to.”

Really though, she’s shocked that she’s been included in Ned’s “trio”. It’s not like she talks to either of them outside of school or practice—it’s not like she even talks to them that much _during_ those two things. She always figured that she was just a presence in their lives. Maybe they’d have a throwaway line about her for their kids when they got old enough to reminisce about high school without getting PTSD.

She hates herself for it, but getting to be a part of something feels…nice. Even if the thing she’s a part of consists solely of the Lego club captain and a guy who she seriously can’t fucking stand.

“So, are you in?” Ned presses.

“I have nothing better to do. Sure. What the hell.”

“Really?” Peter asks, lighting up like the Rockefeller Center Christmas Tree. He looks like a puppy (MJ briefly recalls reading about something called “cute aggression”, where the psychological response to something adorable like a puppy is the urge to squeeze it until it pops).

“Yep,” MJ says, already knee-deep in regret. “Text me the address, and I’ll meet you there.”

“Oh, awesome,” Peter says, grinning. “That’s awesome.”

#

The directions Peter gives MJ lead to a hole-in-the-wall restaurant called Prachya Thai that isn’t too far from school. MJ makes it on time, and without much difficulty. Thankfully, nothing in New York City is hard to get to as long as you’ve got a good internal GPS and a basic knowledge of the train system. Even without a car, MJ can get wherever she needs to go (which is good, because she fully plans on boycotting cars until personal transportation that runs on electricity is affordable and accessible to the common public).

She tries not to look out of place as she walks in. The restaurant has a quiet atmosphere. Low-hanging lights shine down on small, glass tables, and a television turned to the local news station hums quietly above an empty bar.

“MJ!” It’s Peter’s voice. MJ turns.

Peter, Ned, and a woman in her thirties (MJ assumes this is Peter’s aunt), sit at a table pressed up against the wall. Ned and Peter’s aunt sit on one side, and Peter sits on the other.

As soon as MJ’s within arm’s reach of the table, Peter’s aunt stands up and greets her with a hug. MJ forces herself not to shove the woman away, and succeeds in being receptive, but fails to reciprocate. Peter’s aunt seems unbothered.

“Hi. I’m May, Peter’s Aunt. I’ve heard so much about you, MJ—oh, I’m sorry, it’s _Michelle_ for adults, isn’t it?”

“Yes, please,” MJ says. May sits back down, and invites MJ to follow suit.

MJ forces out a tight smile before gingerly taking the only open seat next to Peter. Because of course that’s the only open seat. Of course.

“So,” MJ prompts, swallowing a thick wad of spit, “Peter talks about me?”

“He brings you up all the time,” May says. “I’m surprised I never see you around.”

“Yeah,” MJ says. “Well, I never talk about him, so…”

It’s said more harshly than MJ intends for it to be, but if May is insulted, she doesn’t show it. “Anyways, how does it feel to graduate? I’m sure your parents are very proud of you.”

MJ gives May the same smile she gives the freshmen that she welcomes on to the Decathlon team—it’s tight, closed-lipped, and full to bursting with polite obligation. “Yeah, they are. Super proud,” MJ says.

“Peter says you’re going to art school. Is that right?” May asks.

“New York Institute of Art and Design, yeah,” MJ replies. “I’m pretty excited.”

MJ doesn’t ask how Peter knew she was going to NYIAD. He probably overheard her talking about it before Decathlon practice, because the day she’d gotten her acceptance letter, she was too excited to _not_ tell somebody, and she had roped Amber Farha into a largely one-sided discussion about her own portfolio.

The fact that Peter is one of the few people who cares enough to notice stuff about her should be endearing—but honestly, it’s just another one of the reasons that MJ can’t stand him. If Peter ignored her like everyone else at Midtown, she’d be able to ignore him right back. Write him off as just another self-absorbed jerk.

But of course, Peter just has to _actually give a shit_ about her and again prove himself as the most kindhearted, flawless, selfless boy on planet earth.

Barf.

“She’s a great artist, May,” Peter says. “She did this mural for the school last semester. It’s really breathtaking.”

“It’s okay,” MJ says, skillfully deflecting the compliment, “Spray paint isn’t typically my medium of choice. I like charcoal better. It gives a stronger sense of existential dread.”

“Ned’s tried to commission her a few times,” Peter adds.

“Offer’s still on the table,” Ned pipes up. “Me as Han Solo, blaster in hand. The Millennium Falcon behind me. Lando draped lovingly over my shoulders. Sixty bucks. Seriously, MJ. Think about it.”

MJ nods and closes her eyes for a moment. When she opens them again, she says, “Okay, I’ve thought about it. No.”

#

It’s crazy, but MJ actually enjoys herself throughout dinner. Not only is the food fantastic (seriously, she never thought something with a name as unappetizing as “larb” could taste so _damn good_), but May and Ned are actually pretty entertaining company. Peter’s tolerable too, as long she clenches her jaw whenever she hears him speak.

After they’re done, May not only insists on paying for dinner, but also on driving MJ and Ned back to their apartments. Ned goes first, since he’s closer to the restaurant. He leaves with the promise that he’s going to make them a Decathlon Trio group-chat on an app called Discord.

Then, they drive to MJ’s.

MJ wouldn’t say she’s scared of letting people see where she lives. A better word would be _apprehensive._ She’s not totally up shit’s creek, at least. Her mom makes an okay living, and they get to afford all the typical luxuries of middle-class America (for her mom, this means boxed wine; for MJ, it means a decent arsenal of feminist t-shirts).

Still, it’s not the nicest apartment. Nor is it the cleanest.

And it definitely doesn’t look good with all the flashing red and blue lights outside of it.

Peter frowns as they pass by. “What the hell?”

MJ unbuckles her seatbelt and presses herself to the window, peering out. There’s an ambulance parked nearby, and a couple of neighbors that she recognizes are standing out on the sidewalk in their lounge clothes. A police officer is detaining a blonde woman in an oversized pink blouse and—_shit. _

That woman is MJ’s mom.

MJ swallows hard. She debates telling May that she screwed up her own address. She can feel the hairs at the back of her neck prickle as she watches the scene.

“This looks ugly,” Peter murmurs. “Do you want me to walk you up there?”

MJ cuts him a venomous look. “Chivalry’s dead, Parker. And for the sake of social advancement, it should stay that way.”

“I think Peter’s right.” May frowns. “We’ll walk you to the door. Just to be safe.”

May parks her car a few yards down the street, and all three of them step out. MJ swings her bookbag around one shoulder, and walks briskly in front of them. She hopes to put enough distance between herself and the Parkers so that maybe, just _maybe_, she’ll be able to deal with the worst of this on her own.

It doesn’t work out that way.

Her mother notices her instantly. Even though her hands are cuffed behind her back, she fights to get MJ’s attention. “Michelle! Officers, that’s my baby girl. Let me talk to her.”

MJ has to hold back the larb that’s threatening to come back up her throat when she hears her mom call her “baby girl”. Despite, she tries to look unbothered. Like this is nothing new: water is wet, fans of the New York Mets will continue to feign shock and outrage whenever their team loses, and MJ’s mom is getting arrested.

The ring of police part like the Red Sea to allow MJ through, and she’s hardly a foot away before she smells the tang of alcohol reeking through her mom’s breath. MJ quickly realizes that her mother is wine-drunk (wine-wasted, more like), and she grimaces. In her peripherals, May and Peter are hanging back—far enough to stay out of it, but close enough to hear everything.

“What happened here?” MJ asks, glancing at her mother.

“That _bastard_,” her mother slurs, “thinks he can just come home whenever he wants after _abandoning _us. And for what? To say hello? No, of course not. The dickhead just wanted his goddamned _birth certificate._”

MJ winces. Usually, when her mother gets drunk (which is unfortunately something that happens on a _usually_ sort of basis), MJ can avoid her. She hangs out to draw during after-school detentions, cruises through museums and libraries, and spends too long deciding what sandwich she wants to buy at the local Bodega. Right now, though, there’s nothing to do but confront it.

“You’re her daughter?” the officer questions. He has a dubious look on his face. MJ hates it, but it’s not like she can blame him—she doesn’t look like her mother at all. She’s got dark eyes and frizzy hair, and her father’s brown skin. Her mother could be a stunt-double for Laura Dern. The only thing they’ve got in common is their ridiculous tallness.

“That’s me,” MJ says evenly.

The officer sighs, and looks at MJ like he’d feel sorry for her if only her mother wasn’t such a pain. “Neighbors called in complaints around seven because of noise. Said they heard screaming, which escalated into things breaking, and then finally a gunshot.”

“What?” MJ feels her throat drying up.

“I didn’t _shoot_ the bastard,” MJ’s mother says defiantly. “I should’ve though. I should’ve shot his dick clean off.” The officer gives her a briefly pained look, to which she responds: “Oh, don’t give me that. The last thing this damn world needs is a bunch of little Devons running around.”

MJ’s eyes widen, and she feels a hot sensation fill her chest. “You shot at _Devon?_” she hisses, leaning in so that May and Peter won’t hear. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

On one hand, MJ is so pissed that she might just explode. On the other hand, she’s hardly surprised. _Of course,_ this had to do with her brother. She can’t imagine a single time her mother went off the rails about something that _wasn’t_ Devon-related.

MJ remembers having a piggy bank. The first time she emptied it, she found that the pennies weren’t coming out, so she had to shake it like hell until they did. She wants to do the same thing with her mother right now—take her by the head and shake her up until, like the pennies, all the crazy comes falling right out of her.

“Will he be okay?” MJ hates the way her voice is shaking right now.

“He’s fine. Nothing fatal. He’s got a few cuts from what we assume was a ceramic flower pot, but nothing that a few stitches won’t help,” the officer assures her. “In any case, your mother is likely going to spend the night detained at the station while we work out a court date.”

“Yeah,” MJ says, her head spinning. “Okay.”

“Michelle, you listen to me,” her mother snarls, “I’m telling you right now, if you end up like that bastard brother of yours, I’ll—I’ll-,”

She doesn’t get to finish her sentence, turning her head to the side as puke shoots from her mouth like a jet. MJ glances away, her stomach twisting in knots.

“We’ll be heading to the station shortly,” the officer says, a glint of pity in his eyes. “Would you like to come with us?”

MJ doesn’t get to answer. She barely holds back a yelp as May materializes out of literally _nowhere,_ pulling MJ back by her shoulders.

“Actually, officer, would it be more appropriate if we let Michelle stay with us for the night?” May asks. When the officer gives her an incredulous look, she chokes a little before adding, “We’re, uh, family friends of the Jones’. We’ll take good care of her.”

The cop glances between MJ and May, seemingly trying to decipher whether or not it’s safe to let MJ leave with someone who isn’t a direct relative.

“I think that’s a great idea,” MJ says, trying to relax into May’s touch in a way that seems any fraction of natural. “I can swing by tomorrow to deal with any paperwork.”

Reluctantly, the officer nods and goes on a tangent about any details MJ might want to know. Her mother's rights, where the station is located, and when she can drop by in the morning. MJ’s mom has stopped puking now, and all she’s doing is staring at MJ through her hollow blue eyes. And for the first time in ages, MJ feels completely, utterly helpless.

#

“I’ll take the couch,” Peter announces as soon as they walk through the door to May’s apartment. “I mean, I have bunkbeds in my room, but I wouldn’t make you-,”

“It’s fine, Parker. I’ve crashed on a couch before,” MJ huffs. She walks over and sets her schoolbag down next to May’s couch as if to claim it.

May smiles, “I’ll get some blankets. Peter, would you mind finding Michelle some clothes to sleep in?”

“Uh, yeah. ‘Couse,” Peter says. He hurries to his room and shuts the door while May digs around the closet for a fresh comforter.

This gives MJ the window of time she needs to take her surroundings in uninterrupted.

As a chronic observer, MJ is fascinated by the living spaces of other people. It’s not like she gets the chance to exercise this fascination all that often, but when she does, it’s like those scenes in the detective shows where they start to piece all the little bits of information together to come to a conclusion.

The conclusions she comes to are as follows:

1.) May is unmarried. Housing in Queens definitely isn’t cheap—but this place is _small_. Too small for a couple and their nephew.

2.) May likes to read, even if she doesn’t get much time to. Books are scattered everywhere throughout the living and dining rooms, piled up high in miniature towers. Considering all of the bookmarks sticking out through their pages, MJ also figures that May is better at starting than she is at finishing.

3.) May does not like to cook. The stove is sparkling clean—which wouldn’t mean a thing, except that the rest of the apartment isn’t.

4.) May does, however, like coffee. The Keurig machine next to the microwave looks like it could stand to be rinsed off by a pressure washer.

5.) May adores Peter. MJ spots proof of this just about everywhere—pictures hanging up on the refrigerator, academic awards showcased neatly atop a pair of orange filing cabinets, a homemade Mother’s Day gift serving as the centerpiece on their coffee table.

Nothing that MJ deduces is especially telling, but that’s fine. She welcomes just about any distraction that will get her thinking about something other than her mother and the complete and utter _shitshow_ that she just had to endure.

May returns holding a thick flannel blanket with MIT’s logo emblazoned on it and a few red pillows. “We bought these for Peter’s dorm next semester. You can use them tonight,” May says.

Nothing makes MJ want to gag more than the thought of being snuggled up in the same blankets Peter will probably masturbate under come the fall, but she accepts them anyways. The couch is actually a loveseat, and MJ can already tell that she’s going to have to sleep scrunched up if her long legs are ever going to fit.

It’s comfortable, though. And it beats sleeping in Peter’s room.

Speaking of Peter and his room, he leaves it with a stack of neatly-folded clothes. “Here, MJ,” Peter says.

MJ accepts them. Her eyebrow raises as she inspects them closer. “Basketball shorts and a women’s t-shirt. Glad to see your sense of style prevailing,” she deadpans.

“The shirt is, uh—Betty’s,” Peter says. It’s a definite lie—MJ’s watched Peter for long enough to know his tell. His eyes get wider than platters, and his entire body freezes up. It’s almost like he’s been electrocuted.

“Betty’s,” MJ says, incredulity seeping through her voice like a sewer leak.

“Yeah. Betty’s. She uh—well, she and Ned stayed over last week, and she forgot to take her bag home, so…”

“So, instead of giving it back to her like a normal person, you’ve just been keeping it in your room like a weirdo?” MJ asks. Her questioning him like this feels like cruel and unusual punishment, but it’s just so entertaining to watch Peter squirm.

“I, uh-,”

“What do you do with her clothes? Smell them?” MJ asks, a smirk passing over her lips.

“No! I would—I would _never_,” Peter says.

MJ decides that she’s badgered him enough. She laughs a little, and tries to commit the horrified expression on his face to memory (she’ll want something to draw later). “Relax, Parker. I don’t care,” she says, heading over to the bathroom to change.

The basketball shorts fit her fine, hanging a few inches above her knee (thank God for Peter’s short legs), but the shirt is on the big side. It’s definitely not Betty’s—Betty would probably drop dead before spending good money on a “Periodic Table of Minecraft” graphic tee. The tag on the back does prove that it’s a women’s shirt, though. Maybe Peter bought it by accident, and he’s got some masculinity issues.

Whatever. As much as MJ loves getting into other people’s businesses, it really doesn’t matter right now.

Peter and May are chatting quietly over the kitchen counter when MJ steps out of the bathroom. It’s a serious conversation, judging by the creases on May’s forehead and their hushed voices. MJ clears her throat to give them ample time to shut up before making her way over.

“So, are you taking me back tomorrow morning or something?” MJ asks, setting her hands on the countertop.

May puts on the world’s least-threatening smile. “Actually, I was thinking that you might want to stay here for the next couple of days. Peter tells me that other than your mother, there’s nobody else to watch over you.”

“Well, I don’t need to be watched over. I’m an adult,” MJ says, furrowing her brows. “And I also don’t know why Peter thinks he knows anything about my home life, seeing as I’ve never talked about it with him.”

“Rumors,” Peter admits sheepishly.

“Because those are always true?” MJ asks, raising her brow.

May purses her lips. “Well? Are they?”

MJ frowns, at a loss. As much as she isn’t stoked to reveal the nature of her screwed-up family dynamics, she’s also not one to lie. To compromise, she says nothing—an act that is in complete vain, and that confirms Peter and May’s suspicions entirely.

“Look, we’ll take you up to the station tomorrow so that you can get your mother’s legal work sorted out. But I’d like you to seriously consider staying with us—at least until her court date,” May says.

May’s nice—too nice. Just like her nephew, she makes MJ feel like shit for being such a bitch sometimes. MJ sucks in her lips and stares down at the table.

“I wouldn’t want to be a burden,” MJ says.

“You won’t be. I promise,” May says. “Honestly, I’d rather you here where I know you’re safe."

"My mom isn't going to do anything to me," MJ insists. 

"Please, Michelle. Just consider it."

MJ wants to argue. She wants to assert her stance as an adult (because she is one, at least legally), and she wants to prove that she doesn’t need anyone else—_especially _not the Parkers.

But as much as she wants to put up a fight, she realizes that she can’t. She’s scared, and she’s tired, and under May’s firm gaze, she’s never felt like more of a kid than she does right now. And honestly, she _doesn't_ know that her mother wouldn't hurt her. It takes all of her willpower to finally suck up her pride and nod.

“Okay,” she says, swallowing thickly. “Thank you, May.”

May smiles, walking around the counter and patting MJ on the shoulder. “Of course. Come on, let’s fix up that couch for you.”

#

MJ doesn’t remember her dream, but it must’ve been pretty horrific, because when she jolts awake, her heart is ramming in her chest, and her throat feels like it’s closing up. She sits up and puts her head in her hands, kicking off Peter’s MIT blanket because _fuck_, it’s hot.

A glance at her phone tells her that it’s a little past two in the morning. She’s got no notifications, even though she’s already sent a barrage of texts to her older brother. Devon’s always been shit at texting back, though, so it’s not something that makes her especially worried.

She used to get pissed at him for the month-long stretches of radio static that he’d force her to endure while he was off at college, but now she’s just grown indifferent. She doesn’t blame him for wanting to cut himself off from his previous life—she just wishes sometimes that he’d make an exception for her.

Groaning, she stretches awake and ties her mass of hair behind her. There’s no point in going back to sleep now—she’s too stressed and uncomfortable for the thought of it to be appealing. So, she picks herself up and heads to the bathroom to piss and wash her face.

When she finally gets a good look at herself in the medicine cabinet mirror, it’s not a pretty sight. Her face is oily, and her eyes look exhausted. If Resting Bitch Face were a disease, her case would be terminal.

She flushes and shuts off the light before she can pick apart her own reflection even more.

When she walks back into the living room, Peter is waiting for her. He’s got one of the kitchen lamps turned on, and he’s making himself a bowl of cereal at the counter. A navy sweater three sizes too big sits over his shoulders.

“Hey,” MJ says. “Aren’t you hot in that?”

She’s warm and she’s only wearing a t-shirt and shorts. She can’t imagine what it would feel like to be in a sweater right now. Peter just shrugs.

“I get cold at night,” he says. He shakes out a box of Cinnamon Toast Crunch into his bowl before turning back to the fridge to grab some milk. “I uh, I couldn’t sleep. Want some?”

“I’m good,” MJ says.

“Right,” Peter replies. There’s an extended pause between them, where the silence begs to be filled but isn’t. And then Peter blurts out, “So, has to do with some guy, right?”

_“Devon_,” MJ groans, over-pronouncing the second syllable in his name just like her mother does when she’s on one of her tirades about him (“Your bastard brother, De-_vaughn,_ can’t even make it home for my birthday” or “De-_vaughn_ thinks he’s so much better than us now—thinks his shit don’t stink”.)

“Yeah, him,” Peter says, stuffing a spoonful of cereal in his mouth. “Look, MJ, I’m really sorry.”

“Thanks, but I don’t need your pity.”

“It’s not pity—okay, well, maybe it is, a little bit,” Peter sighs. “But look, if you need anyone to talk to, I’m here. Okay?”

MJ rolls her eyes. “Didn’t realize you were my fucking therapist, Parker.”

Her tone is sharp enough for Peter to wince, and the guilt stings her like peroxide on a skinned knee. MJ releases a shaky breath.

“I’m sorry,” MJ apologizes, her voice hardly a murmur. “I know you’re just trying to help, I’m just—I’m not good at opening up or anything, so you probably shouldn’t expect me to.”

“Yeah. No, I get it,” Peter says, and MJ has to stop herself from throwing her fist right into his stupid, empathetic face.

She wishes that Peter was more of a jerk. Things would be so much easier if he had the capacity to be angry at her. She needs somewhere for her stress to go, but instead of indulging her in her anger, Peter opts to diffuse the situation entirely with his kicked-puppy expression and his genuine apologies that MJ doesn’t even deserve. He’s too nice. Too polite. Too understanding. And all of these things are MJ’s fucking kryptonite, because she can’t be cruel to him without getting slapped in the face with her own guilt.

It’s not like MJ _enjoys_ being mean. It’s just that her meanness is the only thing standing between her and the rest of the world. Without it, she’s just another sad girl with family trauma and a sob story longer than the Hudson river. Nobody wants to get to know the girl who’s become an expert at putting other people down.

And honestly? That’s fucking perfect, because MJ doesn’t want to be known.

“Hey, you can say no if you want—but if you can’t sleep, I’m playing Halo in my room. The old one. Promise, nothing’s more relaxing than mowing down hoards of computer-generated aliens.”

MJ sighs. It’s too early to do anything else, and it’s not like she plans on going to sleep again for at least another hour or two. Also, she’d _really_ feel like a dick if she turned Peter down after snapping at him earlier.

“Alright,” she says.

Peter looks almost startled by her acceptance. He smiles. “Oh—okay! Cool, cool. Let me just—wait there, okay?”

Not bothering to finish his cereal, Peter rushes away to his room. MJ can hear drawers being opened and shut, and the soft clatter of things being moved. She has to stifle a groan. How, exactly is she supposed to believe that Betty stayed over his house? He’s probably never had a girl in his room in all of his eighteen years of life.

Still, she waits until he comes back out, slightly winded as he invites her into his bedroom.

It’s surprisingly neat, though MJ chalks that up to the fact that Peter had hurriedly cleaned it only moments before she’d walked in (he’s not slick—she can see a pile of discarded shirts and energy drink cans sticking out from under his bottom bunk).

Honestly, MJ would love to say that she’s discovered something new and exciting about Peter Parker by observing his room, but there’s literally nothing in there that doesn’t just confirm what she already knows: that Peter is a huge dork.

Figurines line his shelves like a makeshift army—comic book heroes, and dragons, and guys from various video games. He’s got a cabinet full of graphic novels and textbooks, and a map of New York hanging frameless on his wall next to a sparkling-new MIT banner. Academic Decathlon ribbons for outstanding personal performance are hanging over a desk next to a gutted computer.

Peter’s gaming setup isn’t very impressive—just a television sitting on top of a few Tupperware boxes in front of his bottom bunk and an old X-Box coughing and whirring below it.

“Go ahead, sit down. I’ll get a second controller,” Peter says, digging through one of his dresser drawers.

MJ takes a seat on his bunk while Peter fishes out a bulky black controller for her. He untangles the cord and plugs it into his X-Box before taking a seat next to her.

“So,” MJ says. “If you were playing before I came in, why is the game on the main menu screen? Shouldn’t it be paused on a level or something?”

Peter stammers, “I uh—I reset it,” he says.

MJ rolls her eyes. She’s got a hunch that Peter hadn’t been playing video games at all when he’d bumped into her in the kitchen, but she doesn’t want to mention it. It’s not worth the emotional labor of talking to him more than necessary.

So, she just shrugs, accepts his answer at face value, and lets him load up a new save file for both of them while they start on a co-op campaign.

MJ’s never been much into video games. Her experience with them can pretty much be summed up through a collection of spinoff Mario titles. And God, does it show. She dies constantly, and Peter carries them both through the first level.

He even makes _fun_ of her for it, something that MJ wasn’t sure was physically possible for him.

“We should get a swear jar,” Peter snickers, “except it’ll be for every time you get killed doing something stupid.”

“Shut the fuck up, Parker,” MJ groans, though her voice is light. “I’m not even dying that much anymore.”

As if on cue, her character is spiked to death by an alien with a needler.

“Quarter in the jar, MJ. It’s the rules,” Peter laughs. He bashes the alien to death with his blaster.

“Screw off.”

“Seriously? Right after I just avenged you?”

MJ respawns, but this time, she aims her gun right at Peter’s character. He doesn’t see it coming until his character’s corpse is already sprawled across the CGI grass.

“Hey, that’s not fair!”

MJ scrunches up her face and mocks Peter’s voice, _“Quarter in the Jar, Parker.”_

They spend the next twenty minutes ignoring the campaign entirely and killing one another instead. MJ learns that she’s _much_ better at gunning down Peter than she is at shooting the aliens, though she suspects that he’s going easy on her. Still, to her own surprise, she’s actually having a pretty good time.

She can go back to being irritated with Peter in the morning, when she’s forced to go to the police station and all the shit that happened the night before comes bubbling back to the surface. Right now, she’s too caught up in the fucking _hilarious_ way his voice cracks when he accuses her of “screen-looking”.

#

She doesn’t know how it happens, only that one moment she’s driving a four-by-four, and the next, her eyelids are falling shut. She starts to doze off sitting up, and through her half-consciousness, she can hear the latter-half of one of Peter’s good-natured jabs.

“…like you weren’t even _trying_ to avoid that headshot.” And then, a quieter whisper, “MJ? Oh…”

The controller is taken out of her hands, and she feels one of Peter’s arms slip around her shoulders and the other under the bend in her knee. She’s not all that heavy, but he sucks in a breath before maneuvering her so that she can lay down on his lower bunk and sighs in relief when he drops her.

Maybe it’s because she’s exhausted, but this bed has to be the comfiest thing she’s ever laid down on in probably her entire life.

MJ only barely registers the sound of Peter’s door shutting and his light footsteps as he takes himself to the living room before sleep takes over, and her mind goes blank.


	2. ...You Make Me Feel Seen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back at it again. I'm back at college, so we'll see how my update schedule goes, but I'd like to keep things solidly around a week between updates.

Chapter Two  
...You Make Me Feel Seen

“MJ? Hey.”

It’s Peter’s voice that dives into the murky waters of MJ’s unconsciousness and tugs her gently awake. MJ groans, then sucks in a sharp breath as every muscle in her body tenses for a moment before falling undone again.

“I fell asleep in your bed,” MJ says dumbly, prying her eyes open.

Peter’s bedroom window faces the morning sun, and the light that pours into his room is bright enough to blind her. She scrunches up her face, squinting until she can make out his shape standing in the doorway.

He’s already dressed—a plaid blue button-up tucked into the front of his dark wash jeans, and a loose hoodie with Midtown’s logo printed over the chest. His hands are jammed into his pockets, and he shifts between his legs, broadcasting a mild level of discomfort.

MJ almost snorts. It’s not that the look doesn’t suit him. It’s just that he looks like an underqualified substitute teacher (the kind who lets the class watch YouTube videos instead of work and insists on going by anything but “Mr. Parker”), and for some reason, that thought amuses her.

“Uh, yeah. I didn’t want to wake you up and make you move, so I just took the couch. That’s cool, right?”

And because it’s never too early in the morning to fuck with Peter Parker, MJ quirks her brow and asks, “Is it? I mean, making me sleep in your bed without my explicit consent is kinda weird.”

Peter stumbles, “No! No, that’s not it at all! I just—it was a long night and you were already _here_, and obviously I didn’t mean to cross a boundary or anything but-,”

“Parker, I’m joking. Relax.”

“Oh, yeah,” Peter says, his voice bouncing up an octave. “Totally. Yeah, that’s cool.”

“What time is it?” MJ asks.

“It’s nine. May texted me and said that I should wake you up so that you can get down to the police station early for your mom,” Peter says.

He glances down and to the side, apparently fascinated by the intersection where the doorframe rests perpendicular to the hardwood. A fan of studying human behavior, MJ’s always somewhat subscribed to the theory that you can read people’s emotions by watching where their eyes drift. Generally, people look to the left when they’re lying, to the right when they’re telling the truth, up when they’re recalling memories, and down when they’re anxious.

Separate from those basic tells, however, MJ has devised that every individual has their _own_ subconscious eye movements. Flash Thompson looks straight ahead when he’s embarrassed or scared, because he’s afraid of people _knowing_ that he’s either of those things. Ned looks up and to his right when he’s flattered. Betty looks into people’s eyes when she interviews them—not always because she’s listening, but because she wants them to _feel_ like she’s listening.

So, MJ knows that when Peter looks down and to the right, he’s searching for an answer. She’s seen him do it a million times before. During Decathlon practice on the rare occasion that he gets a question he isn’t prepared for. When he’s caught zoning out in the middle of class and the teacher quizzes him on what was just said. That one time he commented that the book MJ was reading was “cool”, and she’d replied, “Tell me what, exactly, is ‘cool’ about white supremacy and colonialism, Parker”, and left him stammering for a response.

MJ isn’t sure what answer Peter is searching for right now. She doesn’t even know the question—though she has her suspicions (see: “How do I talk to my sort-of-friend about her fucked up family issues without sounding pitying/offensive/self-righteous?”).

Peter glances up after a moment, meaning that he’s finally settled on something to say. “Look, MJ-,”

“Is my bag still in the living room? I should get my clothes,” MJ interrupts.

“Oh. Uh, yeah. I’ll get it for you,” Peter says, frowning.

He vanishes from the doorway and returns moments later with her schoolbag. MJ thanks him before kicking off the blanket that he must’ve put over her last night (because of-fucking-course he did), and swinging her legs over the side of his bed. Then she snatches the bag from his hands and shuffles off to the bathroom.

She showers quickly, an act that feels completely in vain when she’s forced to put back on the clothes she wore yesterday. Not that she doesn’t love her Frida Kahlo shirt—she just has a very strict rotation schedule of the women who get to be brandished over her chest, and Frida’s seriously been hogging the spotlight (on the other hand, Marsha P. Johnson hasn’t seen the light of day in a solid two weeks, and it’s honestly a crime).

Peter is waiting at the kitchen counter when MJ finally steps out of the bathroom. There’s a mug next to him—blue, with the pun, _“Up and Atom!”_ written on the side. He’s typing away on his cellphone—to Ned, MJ assumes.

Peering into the mug, MJ grins. “Coffee?”

“What’s wrong with it?” Peter frowns.

“Nothing, it’s just that I figured you’d be more of an energy drink kind of person. Judging by the all cans you shoved under your bed last night, I mean.”

The tips of Peter’s ears flush red, and he glances down at his hands. “I mean, it’s for you, actually. You take it black, right? I remember you talking about the corrupt dairy industry a few weeks ago, so I kind of assumed-,”

“No, yeah, that’s perfect. Thanks,” MJ says. She hurries to tuck an out-of-place curl behind her ear, suddenly self-conscious. She’s used to observing other people—not so much to being observed herself.

She takes a sip. The coffee’s a little weak, since Peter probably used May’s Keurig machine to make it, but MJ doesn’t mind. She’s thankful to have at least a little bit of liquid energy in her system. There’s no way she could head up to the police station and talk to her mother while caffeine-sober.

She’s halfway through her cup when she notices that Peter’s staring at her. She can see him out of her peripherals, chin resting on his fist and a placid expression on his face. Not one to be coy, she swings her head around to challenge him on it.

“What?” MJ asks.

Peter makes a face like he’s been caught watching porn (like, the freaky kind). “Wha-what are you-,”

“You were looking at me.”

“Me? No, I was—uh, I just, um, zone out sometimes,” Peter says, though the way his eyes fly to the left betrays him.

“Well, heads up, it’s kind of creepy when you ‘zone out’ in my direction. You know, like, _hashtag-just-woman-things_,” MJ says.

“O-oh, okay. Sorry, MJ,” Peter says.

Of course, his apology sounds way too genuine and MJ is hardly surprised when she’s slapped in the face with a fresh wave of guilt.

She remembers being especially impudent as a kid. Back then, her father was still a present force in her life, and whenever she spoke out, he’d take her aside and say, “Hey, Mickey, how about you find a nicer way to phrase that and try again?” (Mickey was the nickname her father always called her by. MJ would probably projectile-vomit on a person if they tried to use it now.)

And even though MJ doesn’t want to try again because she’s sworn-off feeling ashamed for speaking her mind, that doesn’t mean she can’t try and make amends.

So, MJ shakes her head. Smiles a little, to drive home the fact that she isn’t _that_ pissed “I swear to God, Parker, I’m going to get you a ‘sorry’-jar. It’ll go right next to my ‘video game death’-jar.”

The corner of Peter’s lip tugs upwards. “With our combined forces, we’d make one hell of a racket.”

“And what would we do with all of that hypothetical money?” MJ asks.

“I’m thinking a yacht. Maybe two.”

“Right after we pay off bail for like, every person incarcerated for weed ever,” MJ adds.

“Oh, absolutely. But the yacht comes after that.”

An easy laugh fills the air, and MJ finds herself noticing how the corners of Peter’s eyes crinkle when he smiles—how one of his eyes squints slightly more than the other. The laughter dies down, and MJ finishes off her coffee. She nudges Peter with the empty mug before taking it to the sink to wash it.

“Seriously, though. You make me feel bad when all you do is apologize. I mean, it’s usually me being the asshole in the first place, if I’m being real with you,” MJ says.

“Oh, okay, uh…” Peter trails off. He looks constipated.

MJ smirks. “You’re trying really hard not to say it, aren’t you?”

“Yeah,” Peter says, nodding his head. He swallows the apology on his tongue and clears his throat. “So, are we heading out now? We’ll probably have to go soon if we want to catch the train.”

“We?” MJ squints at him.

Peter’s eyes widen. “Oh, I’m—I just figured that since-,”

“Since what? Since we played video games together last night, you suddenly get a free pass into my life? Look, Peter, I get that your aunt feels bad for me or whatever, but I’m not a kid. I can handle things on my own.”

“MJ, I’m sorry.”

“Then put a quarter in the fucking jar,” MJ huffs.

She snatches her wallet out of her bag and shoves it into her pocket. She honestly wanted to stay in the apartment for a while longer. She’d hoped to put off seeing her mother for as long as possible, and if she’s being honest—there’s worse company than Peter. But if she stays within a fifty-foot radius of him for another minute, she’s seriously going to smack him.

She stops at the doorway for just long enough to say, “I’ll be back when I’m back. Don’t wait up for me.”

And then, she’s gone.

#

MJ doesn’t know much about the police station her mom is being detained at. She knows that they’re assigned to the precinct in which she lives. She knows that they have overnight holding cells, because she interviewed them for a research assignment on inhumane living spaces. She knows that they have sixteen one-star ratings on Google Reviews.

But other than that, MJ is at a loss. Admittedly, her relationship with the NYPD is pretty estranged.

She keeps her hands out of her pockets as she walks inside. Tries her best to look like she’s not on drugs (she isn’t), hasn’t tried drugs (she hasn’t), and wouldn’t try drugs given the chance (she wouldn’t. Probably). There’s a reception desk across from the door, where an officer stares lethargically at a computer screen.

“Um, hi,” MJ says, stepping up to the desk. “I’m here to talk to Sandra Jones. I’m her daughter.”

The officer tears his eyes away from the computer and looks MJ up and down. “You got ID?”

“Yeah,” MJ says, “it’s in my pocket. I’ll get it out now.”

She fishes her wallet out of her jeans and slips out her ID, placing it on the desk for the officer to scrutinize.

“Alright,” he says, pushing it back with two fingers. “Wait here while I call an officer to escort you back to the holding cells.”

MJ gives him a tight smile. “Thanks.”

The officer comes within the next few minutes. MJ recognizes him—he’s the same cop who apprehended her mother last night. When he looks at her, it’s with kind eyes, and though the blue uniform makes MJ uneasy regardless, she’s glad that out of all the officers in the building, he’s the one who’s escorting her.

“Hey, kid,” he says, cracking a sympathetic grin. “How’d you sleep?”

She glances at the bags under his eyes. “Probably better than you.”

“Late night arrests call for a lot of paperwork.” He laughs, though MJ suspects it’s just to lighten the mood. “Anyways, we didn’t get to exchange pleasantries last time I saw you, did we? I’m officer Grant. I’ll take you back.”

“Okay, thanks.” MJ chews on the inside of her cheek. “I’m Michelle, by the way.”

“Michelle. It’s nice to meet you.”

They head through a heavy metal door, and it hits MJ suddenly that she’s in a police department building and not a prison. There are no bars, no cages. No tattooed men trying to reach out at her like they do in the movies. Instead, the line of holding cells she’s introduced to give her the visual of a stripped-bare hotel.

Officer Grant leads the walk down the long, off-white hallway. Artificial lights bore down on MJ’s face, and if she tries hard enough, she can faintly hear the buzz of electricity as it passes through the fluorescent bulbs.

Her mother is in holding cell G, the last cell in the hall. Officer Grant unlocks it with a key from his keyring and holds the door open while MJ slips inside before following behind her to stand guard. The room is the size of two walk-in closets, and includes little else save for a caged-up wall clock, a stone cot with a foam pad thrown over it, and a metal toilet.

MJ’s heart clenches when she sees her mother. The drunken rage from the night previous is long-gone, replaced with exhaustion and misery. Her eyes are red-rimmed, and her face is pale and shining with sweat. Her hair looks like the unfortunate product of a Van De Graaff generator experiment. Something in the room vaguely reeks, and MJ assumes that it’s because her mother has been puking out her hangover.

“Hey,” MJ finally says, swallowing the hard lump in her throat.

Her mother looks at her coldly. “Did you text Devon last night?”

“Yeah,” MJ says. “No reply.”

“Figures. The bastard,” her mother huffs.

“Anyways, Ms. Jones,” officer Grant says, nodding towards MJ, “We’ll finish your mother’s booking and preliminary hearing by five, and then she’s free to go home until her court date in exactly one week. She will be required to check in with an official at this station every day before noon until then.”

MJ’s brow twitches. “All this for a noise violation fine? Don’t you think that’s excessive?”

Officer Grant looks at MJ like she’s grown a third head. “It would be excessive if we were only fining her. But on top of disturbing the peace, she’s also being charged with aggravated assault and several counts of property damage, _including_ the bullet hole in the apartment drywall that was made by an unregistered weapon.”

MJ cusses.

“Don’t worry, baby,” MJ’s mother says from the stone cot. “I’m getting my lawyer to meet me tonight. I promise, your mother has it all worked out.”

Tightening her jaw, MJ stands up straighter. Tilts her chin up, so that she can look down at officer Grant and project a confidence that she doesn’t actually have. “Can she go home on her own?”

“Yes,” officer Grant says.

“Okay, good. That’s good.”

MJ’s mother tugs on her shirt hard enough to partially untuck it from her jeans. “Clean the apartment before I get home, Michelle,” she says. “I don’t need to come back to that mess.”

Hate describes a feeling that MJ experiences quite a bit. She hates corrupt politicians, and she hates how billionaire capitalists abuse the working class. She hates misogyny. She hates how white people follow her around convenience stores to make sure she’s not stealing. She hates Donald Trump, and Margret Thatcher, and even Gandhi (seriously, look it up—the guy’s kind of a jerk).

But she doesn’t hate her mom. Not even close.

MJ decided back in sophomore year that her mother, like Peter Parker, was not worth the emotional investment of her hatred.

But she doesn’t love her mother, because loving her would be the only thing more painful than hating her. Apathy, then, is MJ’s only resort. She doesn’t care when her mother drinks. She doesn’t care when her mother is sober. And this usually keeps MJ safe from the more dangerous alternative, which is caring until it physically hurts (there is not a way to care in moderation, unfortunately).

But seeing her mother right now, so pathetic and powerless—MJ feels a twinge of something hauntingly familiar in her chest.

“Yeah, Mom, don’t worry,” MJ nearly whispers. “I’ll make sure it’s all cleaned up.”

#

MJ feels her gut twist as she steps into Peter’s room.

He’s bent over the gutted computer on his desk, deft fingers prying away at a circuit board while he mouths the lyrics to an Alt-J song. Ridges form between his brows, and his thin lips are drawn back in what almost appears to be a grimace. He’s so deep in concentration that he doesn’t even notice MJ standing less than two feet away from him.

MJ opens her mouth to speak, but no words leave her.

She’s drawn Peter a few times before. Nothing crazy—it’s not like she has a full sketchbook dedicated to his face or anything. Just a doodle or two from lunch, and a few loose gesture drawings that she did in Spanish.

The thing about Peter is that, at a glance, he looks pretty average. Maybe above-average, if you’re an ass-kisser. Drawing Peter is a science that requires one to find all the little proportions that make him look like himself, rather than every other skinny white boy alive.

Imagining that her eyes are a pen, MJ draws the contour of Peter’s profile. From the slope of his forehead, to the pronounced ridge of his brow, to the slight bump in the bridge of his nose, and lower still—the valley created by the negative space between his upper and lower lip, and the slight jut of his chin.

And then, Peter turns his head, and MJ’s mental portrait is erased.

“You were staring at me,” Peter says. MJ blushes, though it’s not like this is the first time she’s ever done this. She stares at people all the time. Most of them just never notice her back. It doesn’t surprise her that Peter is the exception, but being caught still feels a bit _wrong_.

She sucks in her lips and stares down at the brown bag in her hands.

“Zoning out, actually,” MJ says weakly.

Peter turns in his swivel chair and smiles. “Hey, if I can’t use that excuse, neither can you.”

MJ flips him off. Peter laughs.

“Anyways, I brought lunch,” MJ says, reaching into the bag and pulling out two sandwiches she picked up at the bodega a few blocks away.

Peter takes the sandwich she holds out for him, grinning wider when he sees that she’s ordered it squished down flat, just how he likes it. He pulls back the tinfoil and takes an eager bite. “Oh my God, pickles too? How’d you know?”

MJ bites the inside of her cheek. “You brought one in for lunch once.”

“Seriously? That was like, a year ago,” Peter raises his eyebrows.

“I can’t help it if I’m observant,” MJ says. “Look, about this morning-,”

“Don’t worry about it,” Peter cuts her off. “Actually, check this out.” He reaches up to the shelf above his desk. “I found some old mason jars in the cabinet that May wasn’t using and, well, how do they look?”

He holds out the two glass jars, and MJ has to stop herself from laughing. One of them is labelled, _“MJ’s Video Game Death Jar”_, while the other reads, _“Peter’s ‘I’m Sorry’ Jar”_. A single quarter is already sitting in Peter’s jar.

“Rules,” Peter says, “we can’t take quarters out of the jars, and we won’t count it if you die in a video game because of me. We also won’t count it if I say sorry for something like bumping into you or stepping on your foot. Once we scrap up enough quarters, we can go somewhere.”

MJ lets out an airy laugh. “Okay, Parker. I’m in.”

They eat in silence until they both finish their lunches. MJ takes Peter’s trash from him and stands up. “So, hey, I’ve got to go back home to clean my apartment,” she announces. “Can you tell May that I might not be back for dinner? I don’t know how long it’s going to take. You know, like, depending on how much damage my mom did last night or whatever.”

“Uh, sure,” Peter says. “Actually, I can come with you and help if you want me to. The mess would probably get cleaned faster if we were both working on it, and it’s not like I have any plans for tonight.”

MJ groans. “You’re so fucking pushy, you know that?” There’s no bite to her voice—in fact, she’s almost _relieved_.

Relieved, because she’s finally found something about Peter that could be considered a flaw: that he is insistent, and that his respect for boundaries is greatly overshadowed by his desire to overstep them. This is good, because now she has an actual, valid reason to dislike him.

His intentions are good enough, sure—but doesn’t everyone have good intentions behind their faults?

Peter’s forehead crinkles, “MJ, I’m-,” he pauses before he can say the S-word, then continues, “-trying to help you. That’s all.”

MJ snorts, amused at the effectiveness of operant conditioning on Peter’s behavior. Oddly enough, knowing that her irritation towards him is somewhat justified makes it easier for her to imagine him invading her personal space.

It’s this ease that allows MJ to pull the corners of her lips upwards, as she says, “Yeah, okay. But if you sound even vaguely pitying, I’m fining you a quarter in the jar.”

Peter matches her expression. “Deal.”

#

MJ’s apartment looks a lot better without the emergency vehicles parked in front of it. Not to imply that it’s the Ritz—the building hardly sticks out amongst the multitude of all-brick structures in Queens—but at least she’s not getting any serious Bronx-vibes from it anymore. MJ leads Peter through the main entrance, and up a single flight of stairs to her apartment.

She hesitates at the door (even though she told herself on the train ride over that she wouldn’t).

“You okay?” Peter asks.

“Fine,” MJ says back, too quickly.

A hard swallow, and she’s digging out her keys—shoving them into the lock, and pushing her way in.

Bile crawls up her throat as she takes in the mess. She purses her lips as she steps over a broken flowerpot, careful not to walk in the spilled dirt lest she grind it into the carpet. The shattered remnants of a wine bottle are on display in the kitchen—the half containing the neck is mostly in-tact, however (MJ imagines her mother using it as a makeshift weapon).

Picture frames knocked off their hooks lay in the hallway that leads back to the bedrooms, the glass cracked and fractured. MJ stops by one of them. It’s an old family photo—her, her mother, her father, and Devon. It’s the only photo of her father up on display in the house (though it gets taken down occasionally, when MJ’s mother brings her boyfriends over).

Most of the central damage, however, is located in MJ’s mother’s room. MJ can see exactly where Devon must’ve been looking for his birth certificate. The entire bed is practically flipped over, revealing the box springs underneath, and everything from inside the nightstand drawer rests in a heap on the carpet. The clothes in the dresser have been thrown out, and even the glass ceiling lamp has been dismantled.

It’s a chaotic whirlwind of destruction, and it’s got Devon’s name all over it.

MJ releases a breath.

“Okay,” she says, steeling herself. “I’ll clean up the glass in the kitchen, and you can start vacuuming up the dirt by the front door. Our vacuum is in the closet right next to the bathroom. Sound good?”

Peter nods. “Sounds good.”

While MJ picks up bits of glass with a wet paper towel, Peter dumps the broken flowerpot shards into a trashcan. They move on quickly, covering up every bit of evidence that the night before even happened. They do it with a kind of clinical grace, as if this is some stranger’s apartment that they’ve been hired to clean and not the site of domestic violence dispute involving MJ’s mother and sibling.

Once the living room and the hallway is tidy to MJ’s liking, they move on to her mother’s room. MJ gets on one side of the overturned bed, and Peter gets on the other, and they both heave it back onto its frame.

“Alright,” MJ says, rolling her shoulders. “Do you see a fitted sheet anywhere?”

“That’s the one with the elastic, right?” Peter asks.

“Have you never made a bed before?”

“I mean, May does it for the most part.”

MJ gags. “You make her clean your bedsheets? That’s kinda disgusting—not gonna lie.”

“I don’t make her! She just _does _it!” Peter defends, his voice squeaking.

“So, like, when you-,” MJ doesn’t say the word, instead opting for a hand gesture to get the meaning across, “-do you just have to be really careful not to get it on the comforters or…?”

“Oh my God, _no_,” Peter says, horrified. “I don’t even-,”

“You’re a teenage boy, Peter. I’m pretty sure you masturbate,” MJ deadpans. “I mean, just about everyone does it. Psychologists actually say-,”

“Can we _please_ not talk about this right now?” Peter asks.

His face is blazing red, and he looks like he’s about to puke. Satisfied with his discomfort, MJ laughs and tells him to start folding her mother’s clothes while she makes the bed (she makes an exception for the bras and underwear, though—she’s not trying to traumatize the guy).

Restoring her mother’s bedroom to its previous glory is a chore that lasts until half-past-four. MJ sighs as she shuts the last drawer, resting her hands on her hips.

“We did pretty good,” MJ says. She turns to Peter and feels a sense of guilt that’s become all-too-familiar lately. “Thanks, by the way. You were right about things going faster with both of us working on it. I’m sorry I keep lashing out, I just—I’m not really psyched on the idea of having an audience while I navigate my fucked-up family troubles.”

“Of course, MJ. It’s cool,” Peter assures her. “Do you want to pack a bag?”

“Oh, shit. I almost forgot. Thanks,” MJ says.

She walks back into her room, yanking a travel suitcase out from under her bed. It’s the same suitcase that she’s had since she moved into this apartment from the suburbs. The same suitcase she’s taken to DC, and to Europe, and likely the same suitcase she’ll be taking to NYIAD.

She packs a handful of shirts, underwear, and jeans, along with her toothbrush, hair ties, hair brush, and her razors (she may be a feminist, but for her personally—there’s nothing better than running your fingers up legs that feel softer than a baby’s ass). Last is her silk pillowcase, and a small box of art supplies, in case she gets the sudden urge to draw.

Zipping up her suitcase, MJ runs through a mental checklist of supplies one last time before getting up and leaving.

Peter’s standing in the living room when she finds him. He’s staring at the wall—or rather, the absence of wall. Following his eyes, MJ finally notices the bullet hole. It’s not very large—hardly the size of a fingernail. But it makes MJ feel like her heart is twisting like a rag, wringing out all of the emotions she’s worked so hard to keep in.

“Fuck,” MJ murmurs.

The broken glass, the dirt-stained carpet—hell, even the overturned bed—those are things MJ can deal with while maintaining a safe sense of detachment. A bullet hole is too much. It’s too real. She feels her hands begin to shake.

“MJ?” Peter whispers, turning to look at her. His eyes flicker down. “You’re shaking.”

Based on all of the books MJ has read in her lifetime, there is an infinite number of good reasons to hold someone’s hand. For example: on a date? Sure. Confessing your feelings? Absolutely. Trying to comfort your friend who is having an anxiety attack over the realization that her mother could have murdered her brother?

Capital “N-O” fucking way.

MJ shoves Peter away as soon as she feels his hands wrapping around hers. “Are you fucking kidding me?” she hisses.

“I’m sorry,” Peter winces. “I was trying to help.”

“Jesus Christ, I literally can’t stand you sometimes,” MJ huffs. She shakes her head and turns towards the hallway. “I’ll be right back, Peter. I need to fix this.”

Marching into the bathroom, she grabs the first tube of white toothpaste she can find. Then, she hurries back to the living room and uses it to fill the cavity in the drywall. It’s not a perfect match with the eggshell-colored paint surrounding it, but MJ doubts her landlord will notice the difference between dried-out toothpaste and the rest of the cheap spongey drywall.

“Looks good,” Peter says.

“I don’t need your approval,” MJ snarls back. She checks her watch. Five o’clock, on the dot. “Come on, Parker. Let’s get the fuck out of here before my mom shows up.”

Peter hardly protests as she grabs his wrist and yanks him out the door. They don’t talk as they hurry to the train station. They don’t talk the entire ride back to Peter’s apartment. They communicate in a strict nonverbal code made up of pitying looks and withering glares. MJ keeps a count of every time it looks like Peter wants to apologize, so that she’ll know how much he owes his jar when they get back.

The total cost of feeling sorry for your friend? Two dollars and twenty-five cents.

#

“So, Michelle, tell me how things went at the station,” May asks, reaching into a Wendy’s bag to pass out dinner. She’s let her hair down since coming home from work, and she’s replaced her slacks with a pair of fuzzy pajama bottoms. A faded concert tee from Madonna’s 2008 Sticky and Sweet tour hangs over her shoulders, reminding MJ that May is much younger than she seems.

MJ’s eyes flicker down towards her food. “It was good,” she says. “Her court date is next week.”

“Okay. I’m glad you agreed to stay with us. It’s nice having another girl in the house.” May grins.

“Thanks,” MJ says, attempting a weak smile.

“Yeah,” Peter adds, “it’s nice having you here.”

He tosses a look to May—so subtle that anyone less perceptive than MJ would’ve missed it. It’s a flicker of the eyes and a twitch of the brow that reads, _“Something happened, let’s talk about it in private”_.

MJ has always been fascinated by the near-telepathic bond that some people share. How an entire sentence can be said with a look, how a pat on the back can mean hundreds of different things. She’s seen it between Peter and Ned at lunch—when Peter has a bad day, and Ned nudges their elbows together as if to say, _“It’s alright. We don’t have to talk about it, but I’m here for you”_.

She used to share that bond with her older brother. She could read his face like a book—could understand from one expression whether he wanted to play video games, or whether he was getting ready to mess with her, or whether he was in trouble with their parents and wanted to get out of the house.

Likewise, he knew her. He’d bring snacks from the fridge for them to share whenever she was upset, without even needing to ask her beforehand. Sometimes, he’d randomly come up behind her and mess up her hair with a, “Chill, MJ. It’s alright”, and she’d wonder how he knew that she was worried about the spelling test coming up.

It’s sad, but she still tries sometimes to re-connect link between them. It never works. Whatever bond they shared when they were kids—it’s been gone for a while, and MJ’s pretty sure that it’s never coming back.

May looks down at her fast food and sighs. “I’m sorry I couldn’t make anything tonight. Work’s been busy.”

Peter immediately jumps into the expected behavior, assuring May that Wendy’s is just fine and that he’s “totally cool” with having it for dinner. MJ rolls her eyes. She wonders if Peter has ever made a complaint in his life (there’s no way that he’s satisfied all the time—unless his pleasure is performative).

Maybe it’s to one-up him, but MJ leans forward and offers May a tight smile. “I like to cook.”

“Oh?” May asks. She breaks into a laugh. “I’ve never been fond of it. I guess you know that by now, though.”

“Yeah, I uh, picked it up. You know, living with my mother and everything. I had to learn.”

MJ doesn’t divulge any deeper information, and thankfully, May doesn’t seem interested in digging for it. She settles for a sympathetic nod, and silently urges MJ to continue speaking.

“So, I mean—don’t take this the wrong way or anything, but if you want, I can actually like, _make_ dinner tomorrow night.”

May smiles. “Is that an offer?”

“Yeah. I can cook pretty much anything. You name it,” MJ says.

“That’s so nice of you. Isn’t that nice, Peter?”

Peter glances up from his food. He doesn’t look at MJ. “Oh? Yeah, it’s nice.” There’s a detachment to his tone that sends a shiver up MJ’s spine. MJ frowns—she’s really not tolerant when it comes to passive-aggressive bullshit. Especially not from someone like Peter.

“Is something wrong?” she challenges, tilting her chin up and drawing her brows in.

Peter shakes his head. “I just didn’t think you were into domestic stuff like that.”

“It’s not the domesticity of cooking that pisses me off. Honestly, it’s not even the domesticity of women. It’s the expectation that society places on women to embody that domesticity—that’s what I can’t stand,” MJ rattles off.

Peter raises a brow and lets out a tiny breath of relief, like, _“Okay, MJ’s talking about patriarchal subjugation again, which is a good indicator that she is probably okay”._

The rest of dinner goes uneventfully. After she helps Peter and May clean up, MJ slinks away to the bathroom to change into a pair of pajamas (hers this time, thankfully). Peter is waiting in the hallway for her when she steps out.

“Hey,” Peter says.

“Hi,” MJ replies, unmoving.

Peter sways his body to the side a bit. “So, I actually need to get in there. You know, to take a shower.”

“Oh. Yeah. Right,” MJ says, the heat of embarrassment catching her cheeks as she moves aside to allow Peter access to his own bathroom.

“Do you want to set up a game while I’m busy? There’s no way I’m letting my jar fill up before yours,” Peter asks, passing her.

Honestly, the thought of forgetting the day’s events in a never-ending CGI alien slaughter-fest sounds pretty damn appealing. MJ manages a smile.

“Sure, Parker. I’m on it.”

#

They’re about thirty minutes into playing when Peter speaks up.

“Hey, I’m sorry about dinner. I guess the cooking thing caught me off guard,” he says. He rams his weapon into an alien, staining the base walls with luminescent blood. “Hey, there’s a needler here if you need more ammo.”

“Thanks,” MJ says, collecting it. “Anyways, didn’t I go over the-,”

“The standards of domesticity. Yeah, you did,” Peter says.

Both characters march down a dark corridor, glancing around for any signs of hostile life.

“Oh, shit there’s a swarm of them,” MJ says. “Grenade, grenade!”

“I’m out!”

“Shit!”

An explosion sends MJ’s character flying. She groans and adds a mental tally to her current death count (she already owes a buck-fifty—she’ll be dead broke by the end of the night).

“Seriously though, MJ,” Peter says, waiting for her to catch up to him from the respawn point. “It wasn’t really the cooking thing specifically. I just—I think I realized that there’s a lot I don’t know about you.”

“So?”

“So, we’re friends. We’ve been friends for a long time and—God, I didn’t know any of this was going on. I mean all that stuff with you mom, and having to cook your own meals because there was nobody to do it for you-,”

MJ sighs and pauses the game. She turns to Peter, and as much as she’d like to murder him for being so damn sorry for her, she can tell that he’s already worked himself into being genuinely upset.

“First of all, that speech was worth at least a dollar. Secondly, it’s okay. It’s not your responsibility to make sure my life is rainbows and sunshine, you know?”

“I know, it’s just-,”

“Peter, look at me.”

Peter swallows hard, and his eyes zero in on MJ with an intensity that almost makes her feel warm. The sincerity behind everything Peter does is too much. MJ’s mom used to complain that some desserts were just “so sweet, they were inedible”. MJ didn’t understand it back then—she assumed that sweetness was a good thing, and that there could never be too much of it.

But feeling this _seen_ under the focus of Peter’s gaze, MJ is starting to realize what her mother meant.

Her eyes flicker downward as she starts to talk again. “Look, this situation sucks. And I didn’t want you to know about this shitty aspect of my life, but you do now. And like it or not, we’re both going to have to deal with that information, because we don’t get the luxury _not _to.”

“Did you tell your mom you were going to be staying with us?” Peter asks.

MJ shakes her head. “I didn’t have to,” she says, and they both understand.

She inhales stiffly. “My mom loved my brother, by the way. She loved him so fucking much.” She laughs then, because she’s sure that if she doesn’t laugh—she’ll cry instead. “I don’t know why I’m telling you this. Maybe because I don’t want you to think that it’s always been this way. She loved us, okay? She was a good mom, I swear.”

MJ has broken a bone before. She’s fallen down a flight of stairs. She’s gotten knocked upside the head in PE with a basketball. But none of those things could ever come close to the physical pain of talking about love in the past-tense.

This is why MJ tries not to care. Because if you’re reckless enough to care about the mother who loved you, inevitably you’ll be hurt by the mother who doesn’t.

There’s a shuffling noise as Peter reaches into his pocket. He pulls out a quarter and stands up, twisting the aluminum cap off of his jar. “In advance,” he says, and the quarter drops in with a soft, _tink!_ That done, he sits back down on the bottom bunk. He stares at MJ’s hands.

“MJ, I’m sorry. Look, I know you think you’re mean, but you deserve to have someone who loves you.”

MJ snorts. “Yeah. Okay.”

“I’m serious. You deserve to be loved. Right now, as you are.”

MJ feels something bubble up in her chest, squeezing her throat like a vice grip. The game has been long forgotten by now, and honestly—MJ isn’t super passionate about finishing the level they’re on. Currently, the only thing she wants to do is hide somewhere dark and come up with a list of one-thousand reasons that Peter Parker is wrong.

_You deserve to be loved. Right now, as you are._

Then why isn’t she?

MJ chokes on her next sentence. “I’m getting tired. I should—I should go.”

Peter doesn’t stop her as she gets up and stumbles out of his room, but MJ almost wishes that he did.

#

She’s laying on the couch, and it’s almost midnight. May’s air conditioner wheezes as it tries to keep up with the early summer heat. The sounds of New York play out just behind the glass windows. Something buzzes—her phone. MJ lunges for it, unhooking it from the charger.

Her bright phone screen blinds her corneas with an onslaught of blue light, as she frantically opens a text conversation with Devon. She’s been texting him since winter break, and he’s never once messaged her back. In the past twenty-four hours alone, she’s been sending out messages like crazy.

And now finally, _finally_, he’s decided to respond.

**MJ:** Where are you?

**MJ:** Are you at the hospital?

**MJ:** Mom is coming home tonight @ 5.

**MJ:** Can we talk?

**MJ:** Please, Devon. This isn’t fucking funny. You need to talk to me.

**Devon:** We can talk.

MJ’s heart picks up as her thumbs fly over the keyboard.

**MJ:** Thank God. When?”

She stands up and paces around the living room as she waits for him to return a message. She hasn’t talked to her brother since he left for junior year. After school let out for the spring semester, he found a way to continue living out-of-state on an internship.

A buzz sends MJ’s hands flying to her pocket as she unlocks her screen and stares at the message. She reads the words once, then twice.

And then her heart drops like a stone in her gut.

**Devon:** When I get my fucking birth certificate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who commented, bookmark'd, kudos'd, or gave this story a read!

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!


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